The Naughty List
by xerxia31
Summary: After a lifetime of playing it safe, Katniss Everdeen is challenged to walk on the naughty side...
1. Chapter 1: The Bet

Fur tickles my nose as I slump in my chair and I groan. I love my sister, truly I do. But she has the worst taste. This dress takes the _winter wedding_ theme way too far. Silky fur collars over ballgowns? It's like hunting lodge meets haute couture, where nobody wins.

"That squirrel carcass would bother you less if it wasn't up around your throat." My roommate and fellow bridesmaid, Johanna, drops into the chair beside me. The fluffy collar of her ridiculous dress sits decidedly lower than mine, barely skimming her collarbones. But she still looks just as stupid as I do. I don't tell her that though, because she's holding two bottles of champagne that she's managed to pilfer from the bar. And God knows I'm going to need more booze to get through this interminable evening.

"If I pull it down any further I'm going to give the groomsmen an eyeful," I groan, snatching one of the bottles away and taking a deep swallow. Jo snorts.

"Maybe half an eyeful," she laughs, glancing at my chest. Even with the ridiculous push up bra I forked over fifty dollars for, I'm not exactly filling out the silver satin.

"Screw you," I grumble, but with no bite. Jo and I have been friends since college and roommates for almost three years. She's seen the girls in all of their tiny glory more than I'd like to think about. More than anyone else, probably. Now that's a sad thought.

"Besides," she slurs, demonstrating that she's had far more to drink than just the part-bottle of champagne she's tonguing like she's envisioning something else entirely. "There are some _maybes_ in the groomsmen group." I follow her line of sight to where Vick, my new brother-in-law's younger brother, is in conversation with my mom.

"Are you nuts, Jo? He's just a kid!"

"He's legal."

"Barely." I glance at the amber bottle in his hand. I'm pretty sure he's not even old enough to be drinking that. "What would the two of you even talk about?" She snorts again.

"We won't be talking, Brainless. He's plenty old enough for what I'll be doing to him." I shudder and take another swig from the bottle. I've heard far too many of the things Johanna likes to do through the paper-thin walls of our shared apartment. She looks at me appraisingly. "You never fuck for fun, do you?"

Champagne nearly comes out my nose. "I- damn it, Jo, that's not funny," I hiss, looking around to see if anyone has heard. But she's not smiling, not even a little.

"I'm serious," she confirms. "When was the last time you did anything for fun?"

"I hung out with Finn and Annie last Thursday. We played board games."

"Good times, Pollyanna," she snickers. "But that's not the kind of fun I mean. When's the last time you had _fun_?" She waggles her eyebrows at me and I take another gulp of bubbly.

"I've had plenty of lovers," I sniff. Three, in fact.

"Lovers?" Johanna practically chortles, so loudly that a couple of people look over at us. I try to hide in my fur collar. "Who the hell says lovers?" she gasps in between peals of laughter. "Sounds like something an old, mustachioed Frenchman would say."

"We're not all potty mouths like you are," I grumble. She only laughs harder.

"Potty mouths! Damn, Brainless, you are so pure."

"Shut up, Johanna."

"Seriously," she says, though Johanna is never truly serious, and she's still snickering. "Have you ever done anything even vaguely wicked?" I shrug, and Jo rolls her eyes. "Even been arrested?"

"No," I scoff.

"Okay, let's start smaller. Have you ever shoplifted?"

"How's that smaller?"

"Right. Gone naked in public?"

"Who does that?"

"Who doesn't? Come on, Brainless, you've never flashed the jugs at a hot stranger?" She glances down again at the slight swell of fur. "Or the ping pong balls in your case." I reach over and shove her, but with no real malice, and she's laughing as she wobbles in her chair. Jo is brash and rude and in-your-face, but she's also loyal and I love her in spite of it all.

There's a pause where we sip our champagne in peace, watching the drunken guests Macarena on the dance floor and shuddering. "Can you name even five naughty things you've done in your life," Jo finally says and I sigh. I should have known she wasn't going to drop it that easily.

"I'm chugging champagne out of the bottle right now," I say. Jo just shakes her head.

My mother wanders over, hopefully to save me from Jo's torment. "You girls look beautiful," she says, bending to tuck a long, carefully spiralled lock of my hair behind my ear. There was a time when little caresses like this from my mother were rare. But we've healed a lot in the past few years, built a real relationship again.

"Mrs. E," Johanna slurs. "You're exactly the right person to ask. This one," she gestures in my direction with the champagne bottle, foam sloshes down the neck. My mother deftly takes it from Johanna's hands and takes a large swig from the bottle. Guess that's not as risqué as I thought. Jo laughs at my mother before continuing. "Has she ever gotten into trouble? Was she a total hellcat in her teens? A hooligan?"

My mother smiles at me, and the fondness in her expression is underpinned by a current of regret, the same one I see every time someone asks about my childhood or Prim's. "Katniss has always been the responsible one," she says, and I squeeze her hand. We've worked hard to get past my anger and her guilt about the years I kept our little family afloat, when she'd mentally checked out on me and Prim after my father's death. But the sadness is something we'll probably always live with. "That one over there, on the other hand…" My mother trails off, smirking at the dance floor where several guys are holding Rory by the arms and legs, Superman style, and Prim is attempting to limbo underneath his body. Good thing she'll only be wearing that dress once since it's practically a swiffer right now.

Johanna, for once in her life, accepts the attempt to change the subject, and the three of us chat pleasantly about Prim for a while. But Jo is tenacious. When my mother wanders away to speak with some of Rory's family, Jo starts up again. "You are the friend that fun forgot. You never even missed curfew, did you?"

Though she knows a little of my past, Johanna doesn't know just how bad things were when I was young. How I was forced to grow up far too fast, just to keep us all alive. By the time my mother came back to us, I was well beyond the _youthful indiscretion_ age, and focussed on finishing college and getting the kind of job that would ensure none of the Everdeen women would ever go hungry again.

"I never had a curfew, Jo." Her brows furrow, and I feel compelled to continue. "I never had time to do stupid things. I spent all of my time working, taking care of Prim, the house... " The champagne is keeping me from sounding too defensive, but sometimes, sometimes, I do feel like I missed out a little. Not on flashing my boobs for Mardi Gras beads, but on being carefree.

Jo nods. "You're more of a mother to Prim than a big sister." I shrug; in many ways she's right. Just one more thing that was stolen from me. My sister. Or at least the sisterly relationship we should have had. But I worked hard to make sure that she didn't lose her childhood. And in a way, I lived vicariously through her. While I stayed in Panem for college, lived at home while working both on my degree, and as an instructor at the rec centre, I made sure that Prim could go away to college. Her weekly Skype sessions were my window into coed life.

Even on her wedding day, I'm still living through her, basking in her joy as she experiences yet another thing I may never have.

"We're going to change that now," Jo says, and it's on the tip of my tongue to tell her that you can't change the past, but she's got this strange look on her face that makes me a little uneasy. Nothing good ever comes out of an expression like that. "We're going to have a challenge," she says, confirming my suspicions. "No, a bet. I bet you can't do five naughty things before your birthday."

I snort. "Honestly, Jo, you think I'm some sort of saint. I'm not. I just have no need to be reckless."

"Chicken?" she taunts, and I roll my eyes. I'm not falling for that.

"Grow up," I tell her.

"Live a little, Everdeen. You're only twenty-seven. That's far too young to be an old fogey." I shake my head at her, done with this conversation. "Five things, my choice. You complete them all before your birthday I'll talk uncle Haymitch into lending me his cabin for your birthday weekend." That catches my attention. Haymitch is awful, but his cabin is my favourite place on earth, tucked away on the shore of tiny Seam lake with the best fishing I've ever seen.

Johanna can smell the changing tide and smirks. "So what's it gonna be?" Damn her, I am sorely tempted.

"Nothing illegal," I say, and she rolls her eyes. "And nothing that'll cost me my job or hurt anyone."

"Noted." She reaches out her hand, and I only pause a moment before shaking it. "Five challenges. Three months," she says. "And to give you more incentive, if you fail, we switch bedrooms."

I scowl. When we got the apartment together I scored the better of the two bedrooms, and Jo's been coveting it the entire three years. "Won't be a problem because I'm not going to fail," I tell her.


	2. Chapter 2: Strut

The alarm goes off and I resist the urge to throw it against the wall. I dream of the day I retire; I'm going to celebrate that day by taking a sledgehammer to that cursed shrieking box.

Nearly a week has passed since Prim's wedding weekend, she's safely in Jamaica for her honeymoon, filling her Instagram with pictures of sun-drenched beaches and giant frozen cocktails. All is right in the world.

Or not.

When I stagger into the hall after showering, there's an addition to the large corkboard I use to organize my life (and Jo's). Held in place by a small throwing axe is a sheet of notebook paper, on which is written _Challenge One: wear a skirt to work._

"Well that's simple enough," I murmur to myself. This is going to be a piece of cake. Cabin on the lake, here I come.

"Nuh-uh," Jo says behind me, and I jump, whirling around to face her. She's wearing three triangles of fabric that barely cover any of her naughty bits. After three years living together, you'd think I'd be accustomed to her clothing aversion, but no. I flush and avert my eyes. "So pure," she grouses. "Read the fine print, Brainless." Sure enough, there's more.

"No tights, no panties, and I choose the skirt," Jo reads aloud, cackling.

"It's February," I protest. "I don't remember signing up for pneumonia!"

"You're not going to catch pneumonia. You can borrow my long coat, you'll be fine."

"What on earth is the point of no panties?"

"This is a naughty list, not a stuff everyone does all of the time list." I could argue that I don't wear skirts very often either, but it's too early to waste my breath. "One more thing, Brainless," she smirks. "You can't tell a soul about the list."

"Why?" I'm genuinely puzzled, what difference would telling Prim make?

"My rules," Jo laughs. Then she sobers. "I want you to really experience this, Kat. What it's like to live a little, without a safety net."

"Whatever," I grumble, pushing past her to my room, closing the door none-too-gently behind me.

The skirt Jo's chosen lays across my pillows, mocking me. It's one of hers, and it's cute, all of Johanna's clothing is cute. But it's short, at the very edge of _too short for the office_ short. And leather. How can I wear a leather skirt panty-free? My butt is going to stick to it when I sit down!

"It's lined, loser," floats through the door. Figures she'd be listening.

"Mind your own beeswax," I yell, and her laughter retreats down the hall.

I can do this. It's just a skirt, and I sit behind a desk most of the day anyway. My job as an editor for Capitol Geographic sometimes involves travel, but far more often it's simply pushing papers across my desk and chasing down freelancers with overdue articles.

The no tights thing sucks, but my legs are still reasonably smooth after Prim forced me into a pre-wedding spa day that involved an entire prep team divesting me of nearly every speck of body hair. And the olive tone to my skin means I don't have winter-pasty ghost legs.

This isn't a skirt I can wear with ballet flats though. I have a pair of reasonably comfortable heels at the back of my closet. Unfortunately, they're red. But paired with a red silk blouse, I look like a slightly dressier version of myself. Actually, I look like a slightly more professional version of myself too, except for the lack of panties.

My shit-disturbing roommate is in the shower when I tuck out of my room. I snap a picture of my reflection in the mirror, flashing her my middle finger, and text it to her as I slip into her coat and out the door.

Jo's skirt is snug, thankfully, so the cold winter wind doesn't threaten to expose my half-naked state to the world at large. But why didn't she warn me that walking panty-free was going to feel like this? I'm hyper-acutely aware of my lack of undergarments with every step, the air circulating around my nether regions, the friction of my flesh rubbing together or against my upper thighs when I shift just the right way. I try to adjust my pace; short steps, long steps, wide-legged cowboy steps, but the effect remains. By the time I get to the bus stop, I'm turned on and blushing like a tomato.

This, I understand now, is why Jo so often goes commando.

Thankfully, sitting is no different in my unfettered state, so when I climb off the bus at the stop in front of my office building, I'm more or less in control of myself again, and I manage to get to my desk without making too much of a fool of myself.

I text Johanna right away. _Why didn't you tell me this was going to feel so weird?_

Her reply is so quick I can only guess that she was waiting for me to message her. _And spoil the fun?_

 _I hate you_. I type back, and add an angry face emoji. My phone rings almost immediately.

"You love me, Everdeen," Johanna says before I can even say hello. Her laughter rings down the line, and I groan.

"I'm serious, Jo," I hiss, trying to keep my conversation from attracting too much attention in our mostly open concept office.

"And that's your problem. You're too serious." Her laughter stops and she sighs. "No one can tell, Kat," she says more softly. "It's a naughty little secret that only you know, a reminder that you're a beautiful, sensual woman. So own it. Hold your head high and walk proud. Strut, baby!" Then she disconnects the call without letting me reply.

Strut indeed. The only strutting I'll be doing is when I do the shuffle of shame back out to the bus in eight hours time.

I manage to stay at my desk for a solid ninety minutes before the need for caffeine bests me. I'm a creature of habit, and I need a cup of tea or things are going to get grumpy really fast. The café all the way down in the concourse is out of the question in this state. Instead, I head for the employee kitchen.

With Jo's advice in mind, I keep my head up and my steps even, even as that squirmy feeling lights my stomach and heats my cheeks. Several people nod and smile at me as I pass their cubes, people who don't normally give me the time of day unless it's to dump more work on my desk. But I try to smile back at them, though I'm sure it looks more like a grimace.

Alma Coin, the editor-in-chief, is frowning and randomly pushing buttons on the Keurig machine when I walk into the kitchen. Her assistant must be off yet again today. He's a pretty boy, but useless behind a desk. It's his prowess on top of a desk that's the reason she keeps him around. Or so I've heard.

She glances up at me as I enter, surprise flares in her strange, pale eyes as they rake over my outfit, then land on my flushed cheeks. "Can you help me with this?" she asks, the first six words she's ever said directly to me, even though I've been here three years.

"Sure," I tell her. I don't bother walking her through the steps to working the machine, eventually Cato or Conan or whatever his name is will be back. Or, more likely, she'll hire another pretty boy to make her coffee. I plop a pod of butter toffee tsunami blend into the machine, and hum as it spits out her caffeinated sugar water.

"Thank you Miss… Everdeen," she says, the slight lilt at the end of my name the only indication that she's not one hundred percent sure who I am. Again, I've been working here for three years, the last nine months of which I've been reporting directly to her. But I plaster on a smile.

"You're welcome Ms. Coin. Anytime."

She smiles at me, a genuine smile I think, or as close as I've seen. Then, as she's heading out of the kitchen with a click-click-click of her grey suede heels, she stops and turns back to me. "Drop by my office this afternoon, Katniss," she says. "I have a project that I think you might be the perfect editor for." My eyebrows practically jump off the top of my head. But she merely nods and continues on her way. Huh. Score one for the dressier outfit?

The interaction must improve my mood because I don't realize I'm singing under my breath as I wait for the tea kettle until a crash directly behind me stops the notes in my throat.

Whirling, I see him standing stock-still in the doorway, eyes wide and jaw slightly unhinged, a pile of files scattered across the tiles at his feet.

Peeta Mellark.

He's a graphic designer, and he's been working at the magazine for a few months now. We've really never spoken, but of course I've seen him around. He's hard to miss, after all. Completely gorgeous, with wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and the kind of jaw that makes girls swoon, he attracts a lot of attention. But that's not really why I've noticed him.

Peeta is nice, like ridiculously nice. He brings in baked treats for every holiday, major and minor alike. I still dream about the perfect little strawberry tart he left on my desk on Valentine's day. And his kindness goes beyond plying the staff with carbs. I saw him comforting Annie in the photocopier room after that jerk Crane dressed her down in a staff meeting for something that wasn't even her fault. I know he drove Thom home every day last week while his car was in the shop. And he's not even doing those things to suck up or get ahead. He's just a genuinely kind person.

Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there. So I've kept track of the boy with the bread and pastries. Watched him help our coworkers without ever once asking for anything in return. Watched him smile at people who don't deserve it, watched him walk away from the gossips. The only other person I've ever countered as unfailing positive as this man is my little sister.

That's why I don't even think before I'm crossing the kitchen, crouching to help him pick up the scattered papers.

After a few beats, he bends down too, reaching for the papers all around us. He clears his throat and I glance up at him. His cheeks are so red it's like he's on fire, I can practically see steam coming from his collar, probably from the embarrassment of having dropped what appears to be an enormous portfolio of layout mockups for the summer edition. It's then that I remember I'm not wearing panties. I don't think he can see up my skirt, not at this angle, but with a little squeak, I flop down onto my knees anyway, reaching for a document that's slightly further away as a cover. He glances at me, curiosity lighting his pretty face, but says nothing. We gather his papers in silence.

"Thank you," he says softly as I hand him my stack. His voice is rich and huskier than I remember, and it does strange things to my belly.

"Oh, it's no problem," I murmur, shifting as I try to figure out an elegant way to get off the floor without flashing him. When he offers me his hand, I take it without even really thinking. It's huge and so warm, enveloping my hand almost completely. His grip is firm, comforting, as he tugs me to my feet.

Up close, his eyes are stunningly blue, almost electric, and the way he fills out his pale blue button down shirt suggests the rest of him is as firm as his grip. I can't help but stare a little. He smiles. "You, uhm. You look good today, Katniss."

And just like that, the switch on my mood is flipped, back to my irritated default. I scowl at him. As if wearing a skirt changes how I look. A few inches of bare legs changes nothing about who I am or how well I do my job. His eyes widen at my expression. "No, I mean, you're always beautiful, every day, it's just you look nice today."

"As opposed to?"

"Shit," he says under his breath, and I swear he gets even redder. "That's not… I didn't…" He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, and I have to bite my lip because his sad puppy look is all kinds of adorable. "The red," he says, and I glance down at my blouse. I don't see anything out of place. "You should wear red more often," he says it softly, I have to lean in a little to hear. "It suits you." And then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.

"Thanks?" I say, flustered. I'm not good at compliments. Assuming that's what that was. His expression falls.

"I'm, uh," he says, gesturing helplessly towards the door, the folder in his hand teetering precariously. "I'm just going to go. I'll see you around, Katniss."

"Bye, Peeta," I call out, belatedly, and he stops, glancing back over his shoulder with a pleased but perplexed expression before continuing.

o-o-o

I'm almost floating as I leave Coin's office. Panty-free or not, there's a definite strut to my step and I'm owning it.

Panem Geographic will be producing series of specials about ecotourism. She offered me the first issue, which just so happens to be about the mountains my late father loved so dearly, the ones where he took me as a little girl, taught me to swim and fish and love the land. I couldn't have ever dreamed of a better project for me, and here it is being given to me on a silver platter.

I got over the weirdness of sitting in my boss's office _sans culotte_ pretty quickly when she was dangling the project of a lifetime in front of me. I'm sure that the change in my wardrobe had something to do with it. Reminded Coin that I exist, if nothing else.

Not that I'm going to tell Jo that.

I plop down in my office chair and grab my phone. As much as I don't want to bother Prim on her honeymoon, I have to at least text her my good news.

I'm grinning at my phone when a white take-out cup appears on the desk in front of me, as if summoned by magic. I glance up just as Peeta pulls his hand away from the cup and lifts it to rub the back of his neck. "Didn't mean to disturb you," he says.

"You didn't." I toss my phone onto the desk and raise an eyebrow. The warm, spicy scent of my favourite chai wafts from the cup and my stomach grumbles embarrassingly. Peeta's soft smile widens, and with a wink he produces a little paper bag and sets it beside the cup. My heart joins my stomach in fluttering. He really is handsome. But I have no idea what he and his steaming cup of delight are doing here. "What's all this?"

"A little thank you, for earlier," he says. "With the papers," he adds, as if I might have forgotten.

"Oh." I feel a strange pang of something like disappointment. How did I manage to make him think that he owed me anything for simply being a decent human being? "You didn't need to do that."

He smiles. Peeta is always so free with his smiles. "And, uhm, an apology. For acting like a doofus."

"You're not a doofus," I say without even meaning to. I've heard some of Peeta's presentations, at all-staff meetings, He's thoughtful and articulate. Though he's working in layout, I could definitely see him as an editor, if it's what he wants. He laughs again, cheeks pinking slightly.

"I always seem to be when I'm around you," he says. My stomach gurgles again; I skipped lunch, both because I was anxious about meeting with Coin, and because I didn't want to wander too far in my current state.

With a single long finger, Peeta pushes the paper bag just a little closer. "Please," he says. Inside, I find a cheese and garlic scone, slightly warmed and my eyes roll back in my head. These are my absolute favourite of the many wonderful things the little café downstairs has on offer. "You prefer the savoury ones, right?" he says softly as I slide the buttery bit of heaven out of its paper prison.

"Yeah," I say, distracted, the warm treat's aroma stealing my courtesy and sense. Beside me, Peeta chuckles, warm and pleased. "I mean, yes, I do," I say, snapping out of my reverie. "And these are my favourite." I glance up at him, his genuine smile lighting something in my chest.

"Someday you'll have to try a Mellark's cheese bun then," he says. "They're even better."

"You make cheese buns?"

He nods. "My family has a bakery back home. I worked there from the time I could reach the counter until I moved away after college."

"If my family owned a bakery I don't think I'd ever leave," I mumble around a mouthful of buttery, flaky goodness. My mother says that I always eat like I'll never see food again. It's a throwback from a time when that was a distinct possibility. Peeta merely smiles.

"Well, I'm the third son, so staying there was never in the cards." He says it simply enough, but there's something just a little sad in his expression. I can't help wonder what else is beneath Peeta Mellark's perpetual sunshine expression, what other worlds are locked away inside him.

His must misinterpret my silence as dismissal because his expression falls a little. "Anyway," he says. "I should go."

"Oh," I say, strangely disappointed. "Okay." He turns to leave, but I reach out and grab his wrist before he can go. A little shock of awareness shoots up my arm. I wonder if he feels it too. "Thank you," I murmur, voice tight and not quite able to meet his eyes. But he smiles.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asks, and it feels like a promise.

"Tomorrow."

o-o-o

"And then after Coin gave me the project, that hot guy I told you about from creative services brought me a cheese scone!" I'm two-and-a-half glasses into Jo's and my Thursday night wine and pizza kitchen date and feeling no pain. "Best day ever." Jo clinks her glass against mine, lips rosy from the cheap Italian wine and curled up in grin. "Guess I should wear a skirt more often," I say, slurring a bit on the word skirt. It's a hard word to spit out with partially numb lips. Jo belches.

"It's not the skirt, moron. It's the attitude."

I scowl, or try to anyway, though the amused look on Jo's face suggests I'm not wholly successful. "I don't have an attitude." At that, Jo laughs.

"Oh you definitely do, Brainless. But that's not what I mean. You walked in there today and held your head up high and strutted around like you owned the place. You were a total badass. That's what got you all of the attention."

I shrug. "S'not like I'm gonna go in there without underpants ever again. So the effect'll be short-lived." That's a depressing thought.

She grabs my chin. "You're strong and hot and fierce, no matter what you are - or aren't - wearing. Don't let them forget it." She lets go of my face, blanching a little. "Now if you'll 'scuse me, I think I need to pray to the porcelain gods." She staggers away, but leaves me grinning. As much of a pain in the ass as Jo can be, she really is a great friend. I should go hold her hair back for her. But I think I'll finish my glass of wine first.


	3. Chapter 3: Flirt

"I swear she scores every time we go out together," I grumble into my beer as a tall, rangy hipster drags Delly out of her seat and towards the dance floor. She tosses her hair in a perfect movie-scene version of coquettish, her musical giggle tinkling above the wretched tribute band playing up on stage. We haven't even been here an hour and already she's wrapped up in some cute guy.

"That's 'cause she does," Jo laughs.

"She's got some sort of magic man-attraction mojo going on." I can't help watching them sway on the dance floor, completely in sync with each other even while being utterly out of sync with the music. When I turn away, Jo is frowning at me. "What?"

"There's no magic," Jo says. I roll my eyes.

"You know what I mean." Jo shakes her head, brows drawn. "She doesn't have to do anything and guys just flock to her."

"She was flirting that one up right from the minute we walked in," Jo drawls.

"What are you even talking about?" We'd walked in, ordered our first round, made a decent dent in the pitchers. A couple of guys had wandered by to talk to Delly, then ten minutes later she was heading to the dance floor with the guy who is now running his hands all over her butt. Eesh, they should really get a room.

"Jesus, Brainless," Jo says, eyes wide. "You didn't even notice Red trying to pick you up, did you?" Red what? She must mean the other guy who'd been looking at Delly but who'd lost out to his friend. Jo laughs. "I thought you weren't interested and that's why you gave him the _fuck you_ vibe, but damn, you didn't even _notice_ him trying to chat you up." I'm fairly sure he wasn't, not that it would have mattered. Jo sips her drink, fingers tapping on the table as she stares at me. "Do you even know how to flirt?"

I shrug. "Sure, I guess. But I've never dated anyone I wasn't friends with first. I've never really needed to flirt." The very word tastes bad, and I'm super uncomfortable with where this conversation is going. Jo really doesn't comment on my dating life - or lack thereof - unless she's been drinking. Then, she can be royal pain.

We drink in silence a while, listening to the bar band butcher Led Zeppelin, but when a slow smile spreads across Jo's face I know I'm in trouble. "Yeah," she says, as if we've been discussing it all along. "That's perfect. Number two on the list, Brainless. _Flirt with a stranger_."

She hasn't mentioned the list even once in the two weeks since she made me go to the office without underwear. I knew it was just a matter of time before she brought it up again. "Pfft," I say. "How is that a challenge?" It totally is, for me anyway, but it's also something I don't want to do, so maybe if I downplay it she'll change her mind. "And this is girls' night, I'm not ditching you for some guy. Hoes before bros, right?" Jo shoots a pointed look over at Del.

"You're just using me as an excuse to chicken out," she says. I kind of hate how easily she reads me. "Look." I follow Jo's gaze to the bar, where a guy in snug jeans has his back to us, broad shoulders bowed over the bar. "That one is exactly your type," she says. "Blond hair and a nice ass." She's not wrong, though I'm surprised she knows my type. Neither of the guys I've dated since I've known her were blond. "Go on over and flirt him up."

"No," I squeal, sounding horrified even to my own ears. "I'm not looking for a man."

Jo snorts, beer misting across the table. "I'm not suggesting you marry the owner of that fine ass," she snickers. "Just flirt a little, get a free drink out of it."

I huff. "I'm a modern woman, I can buy my own drinks."

"Perfect," she says. "Go buy Blondie a drink."

"Fine," I mutter. "I will." How hard can it be? Say hello, buy the guy a drink, and I'm that much closer to the cabin.

I practically stomp my way to the bar, heavy black boots clomping on the hardwood flooring, scattering the ubiquitous peanut shells. Delly had tried to convince me to wear a skirt out tonight, but it's March and I wanted to be comfortable. Jo strong armed me into a cute pair of skintight jeans and a bit of mascara, but my Docs were non-negotiable.

I have a few seconds to appreciate just how nice the guy's butt is, to admire the half sleeve of tattoos peeking out from his tight black tee before I'm tapping his shoulder, a startling wall of muscle under my hand. I plaster a fake smile on my face; it falls when he turns his head to look at me.

Peeta Mellark.

I hadn't recognized him from behind, and since I've only ever seen him in the suit slacks and button downs he wears in the office I guess I never imagined he might wear something like this away from work. His eyes light up in recognition, a smile spreading across his face as he turns to face me fully.

Holy guacamole, I can see every muscle in his torso through his tight shirt, some obscure 80s band logo giving me a reason to stare at the outline of a pair of mighty fine looking pecs. How did I not know that sweet Peeta Mellark was hiding all this under his conservative dress shirts? He's like superman!

"Katniss," he says, his voice rough and warm over the din of what I think is supposed to be _Whole Lotta Love_ squawking from the stage. I can only gawk. We've talked at work almost every day over the past couple of weeks, even taken our coffee breaks together twice (where I learned that he, like me, is a tea drinker, but he never puts sugar in his Earl Grey, whereas I like half a bucket of the sweet stuff in my chai). But I've never before seen him outside of the office. "It's so good to see you," he says, leaning down just a bit to be heard over the music.

"Mmmm," I mumble. He even smells good, something spicy and masculine. I just stare at him, mouth slightly open, in real danger of drooling on myself. Honestly, it's not my fault. That body is enough to take any brain offline, I'm convinced. "Are you here alone?" he asks.

I shake my head and gesture vaguely over my shoulder. "Friends," I mumble at his glorious chest.

"Ah," he says, a hint of hesitation in his tone. There are a few beats of silence, punctuated by the caterwauling of a guitar. "Would you like a drink?" It's just enough to snap me out of my reverie. My eyes reluctantly leave all of that ripped musculature barely concealed by threadbare cotton and focus on his face. I have a mission to accomplish here, flirt with a stranger, buy him a drink.

Peeta's not a stranger, but Jo doesn't know that. And more importantly, Peeta won't laugh in my face the way some stranger might. That knowledge makes me relax. "Actually," I say, finally finding my voice. "I came over to buy you a drink."

A sweet, pleased smile warms his face, and whatever hesitation I had melts away. But now I'm left with a new problem. Peeta Mellark is clearly way cooler than I ever gave him credit for. I have no idea what cool people order in a bar; I've been drinking two-for-one pitchers of Pabst. When the bartender wanders over, I'm left babbling "I'll have what he's having," like some kind of cliché and praying it's not whiskey or something else that tastes like liquid pain.

"Do you want to find a table?" Peeta asks once the bartender sets us up with a pair of local microbrews, to my relief, and I nod. He escorts me across the room with a hand on my lower back, gentlemanly but also kind of hot. I catch Jo's eye and she gives me two thumbs up.

"Do you come here often?" Peeta asks once we're settled into a booth where it's just a little quieter. I shrug.

"Every other month or so." It's not far from my apartment and the two-for-one pitchers are a nice draw. "My friends are here nearly every Friday though." I gesture over to where Jo is holding court at our table with a stunning blonde and a couple of young guys. I wonder which one she'll bring home tonight. Possibly all three.

"Meat market," he suggests, and I laugh, heat rising in my cheeks.

"For Del definitely," I agree, looking for Delly out on the dance floor but coming up empty. I guess she's already taken the rangy hipster home. "But that's not really my scene."

"Mine either," he says softly. And yet he's here now, attracting plenty of attention, even tucked away in a booth. He's definitely turning heads - male and female. With little more than a nod, he has one of the waitresses bringing us over another pair of bottles.

"I've never seen you here before," I say to Peeta. I would have noticed him before, even if we hadn't met. He's hard to miss.

He shakes his head. "First time," he says. "I'm here with my friend, Thresh. He's playing bass in the band."

I try, I really try, not to grimace, but the way Peeta laughs I can't possibly have been successful. "Not a fan?" he teases.

"It's uhm, they have an interesting sound."

Peeta laughs harder. "You're such a bad liar, Katniss." He shakes his head. "Never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin," he says. At my flustered expression, his laughter dies off. "It's okay. I know they're terrible. Hell, Thresh knows they're terrible. But look at him."

I twist to look up at the stage. The bass player - _Thresh_ \- is a huge man, linebacker-sized. He's totally into whatever song they're attempting to play, hopping around on the small stage with a wide grin glowing and sweat turning his skin into polished mahogany.

Peeta leans closer. "He's having a blast," he murmurs in my ear, and I shiver as his breath tickles me. "He's never going to get a recording contract or sell out a stadium. He plays because he loves it. Fun just for the sake of having fun, you know?" I don't know, actually. That's what Jo's been saying all along, why she's tormenting me with this list. But I find myself wanting to know. Wanting to experience just a little of that freedom for myself.

"Do you like pool?" I ask, and at his nod I stand and reach for his hand. Just like that day a couple of weeks ago when he helped me up off the floor, the feeling of his large, warm hand enveloping mine does strange things to my belly. I gulp down more of my beer to cool my flushed cheeks, then lead him to an empty table.

Peeta is a ton of fun, he keeps up playful and light-hearted conversation even as I trounce him repeatedly at pool. When I pull my phone out of my pocket, I'm shocked to see that two and a half hours have passed in what feels like the blink of an eye. There's a single text message from Jo too. _See you at home. Or maybe not? Keep it safe, sane and consensual. Call me if u need me_. "Everything all right?" Peeta asks over my shoulder.

"Yeah, my roommate ditched me. But that's pretty common," I admit. She'd never leave me someplace where I could be in danger. But I'm just a few blocks from home, and surrounded by people who know me at least a little, and know Jo very well. Doubtless, she checked in with them before taking off. She's a pain in the bottom, but she looks out for me. I feel a little slice of guilt about not having kept an eye on her tonight. She can take care of herself, but I should have had her back.

"Do you need to check up on her?" he asks, as if reading my mind.

I shake my head, and can't help smiling. "Nah, she's a big girl." _Same to you_ I tap into my phone, then shove it back into my pocket. I wonder if she's brought someone back to our apartment? Might be a long, loud night. "Another game?"

"I think I've been humiliated enough," he says, but his grin takes any sting out of the words. "Will you sit and chat a while longer? I promised Thresh I'd stay until the end of the night."

Not much of a decision, going back to my place and listening to Jo through the walls, or enjoying more conversation with a surprisingly interesting Peeta Mellark, though the background music might give Jo a run for her money. And honestly, even without the motivation of Jo's extracurriculars, I'd choose to spend just a little more time with Peeta. He has a way of truly listening, focussing, of making me feel like I'm the only person in the room, and I like it.

Peeta leads me back to a table pretty much as far from the stage as possible, and orders a pitcher of water. "Unless you'd like another beer?" he says. "Sorry, I shouldn't assume."

"No," I assure him. "Water is perfect." I'm pretty much at my maximum tolerance for alcohol; any more and I'll either crash the stage for a sing-along, or fall asleep.

We fall quiet, but it doesn't feel awkward. He props his elbows on the table and my eyes are drawn to the ink swirling around his impressive biceps. Without even thinking, I reach out to trace the designs with just the tip of my finger, and Peeta shudders. "Ticklish?"

"No, it's okay," he says, but the field of goosebumps that erupt under my feather-soft touch tell a different story. I bite my lip to keep from laughing and Peeta groans softly.

"I would never have guessed you'd have tattoos." I can't stop touching them, they're so beautiful, and so unexpected. I glance up at his silence and notice that he seems a little unsure, as if he's worried I'll judge him for his ink. "I like them," I tell him, emboldened by the alcohol singing in my veins. "You're a secret badass." The curse word tumbles from my lips unfamiliarly, but it makes me feel a little badass myself.

Peeta laughs, and I join him. "I guess you don't have any yourself?" he asks quietly, and I shake my head. I'm not against them or anything. I've just never had the inclination.

"These are incredible," I tell him as I continue to map each of the various designs inked on his arm, even pushing the edge of his t-shirt sleeve up. "They look more like fine art than tattoos." Jo has a few tattoos, so does Rory, but they're nothing like this.

"Thank you," he rasps, clearly still ticklish. "I designed them."

My mouth drops open. "You tattooed yourself?" I can't even envision how that would work. But Peeta chuckles, kindly, not like he's mocking me.

"No, I drew the designs and my brother inked most of them for me." Two Mellarks? Wow. File that one away to think about later.

"What do they all mean?" He lets me turn his arm this way and that, and I try hard to concentrate on the ink instead of on the sexy solid muscle that twitches under my exploring hands.

There's the requisite tribal motif that all guys our age seem to have, which he explains he got when he turned eighteen, and a celtic band that's the first thing his brother inked. Both are far more intricate than any similar tats I've seen. On his inner biceps, there is a gorgeous mountainscape with _home_ written in script which, of course, represents his hometown, in the mountains about two hours away.

The biggest design by far is a compass rose that cups his shoulder, the needles replaced by a paintbrush and… a whisk? I squint at it, considering. The paintbrush is clearly because Peeta is an artist. But a whisk?

Peeta notices where my attention is. "The whisk is for my father. He was a baker." I remember him mentioning their family bakery, but I catch the sad undertone in his words, his use of past tense.

"My dad is gone too," I admit. "I never thought of memorializing him that way." I've never really memorialized him in any way, simple survival seemed like tribute enough at the time. Now, it makes me a little sad that I don't have anything to remind me of him. His personal effects are long gone, sold mostly to help feed me and Prim when mom was in the worst of her depression. There are some pictures, but that feels a lot less personal than something you'd carry around on your skin forever.

Peeta's friend, the bassist, comes over before I can fall too far down the hole of regret. I hadn't even noticed that the music has stopped and the bar crowd has thinned to almost non-existent. "Thresh," Peeta says, standing. "I'd like you to meet Katniss."

Thresh looks down at me, a spark in his dark eyes, almost like he recognises me which is crazy because he's definitely not a guy I'd forget. I reach up to shake his hand; instead, he half drags me out of my chair and into his embrace. Okay, apparently he's a hugger. I try not to flinch too badly. "Stop mauling the poor woman," Peeta's bemused voice floats over, and Thresh laughs before setting me back in my chair.

"It's nice to meet you," I say. "I enjoyed your show." There's a beat of silence before both men burst into laughter.

"Oh I like her, Peet," Thresh says, his smile wide and genuine. He turns back to me. "I've been trying to get this one to play too, but he's too embarrassed to be associated with us."

Peeta splutters some denial, but I'm fixated on Thresh's words. "Peeta is a musician?"

Thresh nods. "Drummer. And a damned fine one." I sneak another peek at Peeta's biceps. That explains a lot.

"I'm just going to pack up my stuff," Thresh says, shoving Peeta goodnaturedly before ambling off.

"I should get home too." I can't remember the last time I stayed out until closing, but I find I'm not even all that tired, a strange energy buzzes through me that has nothing to do with the beers I drank.

"Can I walk you?" Peeta asks me shyly. I certainly don't need a chaperone for only three blocks, but I find I really want to walk with Peeta, to extend our time together just a few more precious minutes.

"I'd like that," I tell him.

It's colder out than I was expecting, and even in my jacket and favourite red hat I'm shivering before we've gone twenty yards. Peeta slings an arm around me, drawing me in closer to the warmth of his body. Though he's only in a leather jacket, he's as hot as a coal stove. "Is this okay?" he asks.

It's more than okay. It's perfectly wonderful. I nod.

We walk in comfortable silence, the three blocks passing just like the rest of the night has, in a blink. When we reach my building, I stop reluctantly. "This is me."

Peeta shifts to face me, the streetlight painting him in shadows, cloaking him in mystery. "I had a really great time tonight," he says, and I freeze. That line, in the deep timbre of his voice, feels like the end of a date. Was this a date?

"I did too," I try to tell him, but my voice is little more than a whisper. Am I supposed to invite him up now? My friends pick up guys at the bar all of the time, but I never have, and however cute Peeta is I hadn't intended on starting with him.

"Maybe," he says, and I hold my breath. "Maybe we could do it again sometime. If you want?"

"Hang out at the Trident and listen to Thresh butcher classic music?" Peeta barks out a great gust of laughter, and I relax.

"I was thinking something a little less damaging to the eardrums," he confesses. "Dinner?"

"I'd like that," I tell him, and I really would. Spending time with Peeta tonight, and even at work, has been wonderful. He smiles, and before I even realize what's happening he's leaning down and pressing his lips to my cheek, just beside my mouth. A bare whisper of a kiss, gently seductive. A promise of more. But before I can respond or turn my face to catch his lips, he's pulling back.

"Good night, Katniss," he says, then turns and ambles away, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

Jo is alone in our apartment and still awake, propped up in bed but with her door open just a crack. Once she sees I'm alone, she calls out to me, and I pad into her room, climbing under her duvet to steal her heat.

"You didn't bring Blondie home?" she yawns. I shake my head. "Did you have a good night at least?"

"I did. He's really sweet."

"Did you get his number?" Uh-oh. Confession time.

"I, uh. I already had it." Jo's sleep-hooded eyes snap open. "It was that guy from creative services I mentioned. Peeta."

"Cheater," Jo says, scowling but with no malice, and I laugh. She slugs me with her pillow and I just laugh harder.

"I swear I didn't know it was him until I walked up to the bar," I protest between giggles.

"Sure, sure," she grumbles, then settles back down onto her pillow. "Wait," she says, eyes widening comically. "Did you say his name is Peeta?" I nod, a little worried that she knows him. "Peeta? What kind of name is that? It sounds like some Bostonian talking about his junk. _Peeta_ , ugh. Is there a less sexy name for a guy? Maybe Horace? Bartholomew?"

"Jo!" I'm laughing so hard now that the bed is shaking. "You're horrible!" We lie in her bed, laughing together until my stomach hurts.

"He walked me home," I tell her once we've calmed, the words falling like dewdrops into the hush. "And he kissed me." My cheeks are still flushed from that all too brief contact with the sinfully soft lips of Peeta Mellark.

"You going to go out with him?"

"Yeah, I think so." I yawn, in the warmth of Jo's bed the lateness of the hour becomes more evident.

"I'm glad," she says.


	4. Chapter 4: Hooky

I'm nearly cross-eyed, trying to parse out the numbers in my budget spreadsheet, when my laptop vanishes and is replaced by a feisty little brunette. "Brainless," Jo barks, lounging across my thighs and tugging at the end of my braid until I lift my head to look her in the face.

"What?" I snap. My voice is hoarse and crackly, and I clear my throat before trying again, with slightly less venom. "What do you want, Jo?"

"It's almost two, you've been at this all night again, haven't you?" She's not wrong, the last time I remember getting off the couch the sun was still up and now I'm sitting in an island of weak light in the middle of our darkened living room. She yanks my braid again. "This has got to stop," she says more seriously. "You're going to burn out."

She kisses my cheek and climbs off my lap, wandering towards the kitchen and I sigh. I know Johanna is right. In the five weeks since Coin gave me the project of a lifetime, I've worked seventy-plus hours each and every week and the stress and exhaustion is getting to me, not to mention the complete lack of anything but work in my life right now. I haven't once seen Prim in all of that time, in fact, I haven't been out at all since the night I unexpectedly met up with with Peeta at the bar up the street. And though we'd danced around the idea of going out on a proper date, that hasn't happened either. Even coffee breaks together have dwindled to very, very rarely. He hasn't pressured me, though, and hasn't seemed deterred when every time he pops by my desk I'm neck deep in something or another and have no time for him. I can't imagine that'll last much longer. Surely he'll give up on me soon. The realization depresses me even further.

I rub my eyes roughly, then startle when the couch dips. I squint my tired eyes open to find a plate in my line of vision, half a roast beef sandwich taunting me. My stomach gurgles.

"That's what I thought," Jo says, setting the plate on my lap. "You skipped dinner again." I don't try to defend myself as I practically inhale Jo's leftovers. Because she's right, and she knows it. I'm hangry on top of everything else.

She hands me a half-full water bottle as I contemplate licking the plate, and it's only then that I realize she's in pyjamas. It's the middle of a Tuesday night, she got out of bed to check up on me even though we both have work in the morning. "Thanks," I tell her, though the word isn't anywhere near enough. She's been picking up all of the slack around here lately, cleaning the bathroom, tossing my laundry in with hers, leaving me food when I'm stuck at the office 'til all hours of the night. She's been a rock, and I've been a cranky, crappy friend. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you." The sincerity of my statement suffers a little when I yawn partway through.

Jo shakes her head, but for once doesn't tease me. "There's nothing to make up," she says. "That's not how it works with us. Come on." she attempts to haul me off the sofa, but I shrug her off.

"Gotta finish this contract. If I don't have the amendments signed off by nine there'll be a penalty."

"I'll wake you early," she promises. "You're exhausted."

I let Jo drag me to my room and the next thing I know she's shaking me awake none-too-gently in the thin dawn. "Get your ass up, Brainless," she barks, and the only thing that keeps me from calling her something foul is the knowledge that I disrupted her sleep last night and yet she still woke up early to help me out. "Finish your shit. I'll take the first shower."

We both run for the bus together, which means I'm a solid 45 minutes late already, but at least the new contract was emailed over to accounting on time. I slump in my seat, Jo leans against me. "You need a day off," she mumbles.

"Soon," I grumble. It's not the first time she's said it. I know I'm working a lot of hours, and weekends too. But it's my first big project and I can't afford to screw it up.

"Take a little vacation," she says, but there's no conviction in her voice. She knows what I'm going to say.

"I took three days off for Prim's wedding." It was only six weeks ago, though it feels like a decade.

"Three days where you spent twenty hours a day catering to Bridezilla."

She's not wrong. But I can't take more vacation time, not so close to my last vacation claim and certainly not in the middle of the biggest project of my career. And we both know it.

We lapse into silence while Jo fixes the collar on the silk blouse I've managed to button wrong. It doesn't last.

"Number three on the list," she starts, and I tense. I literally have no room in my life for this stupid list right now. "Play hooky."

"No," I interject before she's even finished. "No way, you promised, nothing that would jeopardise my job. She snorts.

"How long has it been since you've taken a sick day?" Truthfully, I've never taken a sick day at this job, though I feel like pointing that would just encourage her. "I can't remember you ever taking a day," she continues, as if reading my mind. I shrug. "You worked through that bout of bronchitis two years ago."

"I'm a good employee." There's no shame in being responsible.

"So taking a sick day isn't going to hurt your job," she says smugly. I groan, I have no energy for this crap today.

"It's dishonest Jo." My head lolls against the cool glass of the bus window as we round a bend. If Jo wasn't with me, I'd probably be napping.

She grabs my chin, turning me to face her again. "You look like shit. It's not dishonest to say you're too wrecked to work." She shakes her head at me, then stands. I panic a bit that I've really pissed her off, but then I realize we're almost at her stop in midtown already. I must have zoned out for part of the trip. She's flips a wave over her shoulder and is gone.

It's not like I've never played hooky before. In highschool I sometimes missed school so I could pick up extra shifts at one of my jobs, especially when Prim needed new shoes or we were short on the rent. But calling in sick now is just too selfish.

I stumble through the day on autopilot and leave on time for once, crashing into bed as soon as I'm home, skipping dinner yet again.

o-o-o

There's a price to pay for leaving on time, of course, as the snarky email I find Wednesday morning proves. Stupid jerkface consultant forgets he's in the Pacific time zone and I'm not. I'm too angry to answer, I'll say something unprofessional. So I close the message and concentrate on the rest of my to-do list.

All through the day I fume at him, and at every other person in this place who doesn't appreciate just how much of my life I'm giving to this project. I work 12 hours, they expect 15. I love my job, but I can't remember ever being this disheartened by it. I thought this project was going to be exciting, a chance to celebrate everything my dad loved so much. Instead, it's been endless meetings and negotiations and budgets that won't stretch quite far enough.

It's dinnertime when I finally re-open the consultant's nasty message to try to formulate a polite response. I stare at his harsh words on my screen, working myself into knots yet again. I don't realize just how tense I am until a pair of warm hands start squeezing the painfully tight muscles in my shoulders. "Are you okay? Your shoulders are right up to your ears."

I'm clearly not okay, but the urge to snap at Peeta is quashed by the magic of his huge hands, and all I can do is gurgle in pleasure. His soft chuckle should annoy me more, but I'm honestly too tired to even scowl. And though the email stares at me, waiting none too patiently for a response, I instead close my eyes and sigh. "I'm so frustrated," I admit softly.

Those big hands shift, thumbs stroking the back of my neck, raising goosebumps in their wake. "What can I do to help?" The words are so softly spoken, so completely without expectation that I find myself answering instead of brushing him away, like I have the few other people who've dared to offer assistance lately.

"Make it all disappear?" He laughs, and I smile for the first time in days. After a moment, I sigh. "I think I need a break from this place." Though I'm reluctant to lose the comfort of his hands on me, I turn in my chair. He steps back, those wonderful hands disappearing into the pockets of his crisp grey dress pants, a shy half-smile on his lips.

"Weekend is coming soon," he says, shrugging a little. It is, but I've committed to spending it here in the office. A well-known nature photographer is flying in for the weekend to meet with some of the magazine's bigwigs, and I've been invited to sit in, to pitch having her photograph part of my special edition. It's a huge opportunity, but it's almost an entire weekend of schmoozing, which I'm terrible at even in the best of times, and stressed and exhausted as I am, these aren't the best of times. I'll be lucky not to scare her off with my slug-like charm.

Peeta snorts, and I slump. I hadn't even realized I'd been whining out loud about my pathetic life. I am a mess.

"You are a mess," he agrees, but kindly, and I smile.

"I'm tempted to call out tomorrow," I admit. "But I'd probably just spend the whole day glued to my laptop anyway."

"I think I know the perfect thing," he says, after the briefest of pauses. "I can pick you up tomorrow morning at nine?" Cautious Katniss wants to say no, wants to say _just kidding_. But I can hear Jo's voice in my head, telling me to stop being such a goody two shoes, telling me to live. And the part of me that's not so brave as I could wish wants it to be Peeta beside me as I jump into the unknown.

Still, I waffle a little. "I couldn't do that to you, get you in trouble." He laughs.

"I know I'm not as badass as you are, Miss Everdeen, but I can walk on the wild side sometimes too." He's teasing me because I've called him that before. Ha, if he only knew. The only thing badass about me is… well, nothing. I don't have a badass bone in my body, Jo would fall over in hysterics if she heard Peeta describe me that way. I open my mouth to argue but he stops me with a finger on my lips that should offend me but with his sparkling eyes and happy grin I can't get upset. "Tomorrow morning, nine." He steps back, and when I don't argue his smile widens even further.

o-o-o

Jo isn't home when I wake up in the morning, a text message tells me where and with whom she spent the night. I take a few minutes to simply lie in bed and enjoy the quiet, enjoy not having to rush like a madwoman so I can make the bus. I can't remember the last time I took even a few minutes just to breathe this way. I'm sure Prim would have something to say about that. She thinks I work too hard.

I fire off a quick _all okay?_ text to Jo and then climb into the shower. I'm selfishly a little grateful to not have her here to harass me about not just playing hooky, but skipping work to spend the day with Peeta. Whatever is happening between us is too new, too fragile to subject it to Johanna Mason just yet.

I climb out of the shower to two texts, a poop emoji from Jo, and a directive from Peeta to wear long pants and sturdy shoes. That certainly piques my curiosity. Not that I'd been planning on heels anyway, but the knowledge that we're probably going to be outdoors lifts my spirits even further. Though it does make me worry a little. The last thing I need is to run into Twill from HR somewhere downtown when I'm supposed to be at home, sick.

If there's a manual on how to dress when you're playing hooky with a guy you like, I haven't read it. I don't want to look like a slob, because it's Peeta and he never really noticed me until the short skirt. But I also want to be comfortable. What's the point of calling out if I'm just going to get dressed for work anyway?

In the end, I stick with cargo pants, a tank and a hoodie, warm enough to handle the morning chill that early April brings and casual enough that it doesn't look like I'm trying too hard. I've just finished braiding my hair over my shoulder when there's a brisk tap-tap-tap on my door. Peeta, five minutes early and carrying a takeout tray with two cups in it.

"Oh my God, you are amazing," I breathe when he hands me one of the cups, and he snorts.

"You're supposed to say that at the end of the date," he quips, then turns away, the tips of his ears turning red in embarrassment. But I laugh. I knew Peeta was funny, but this is the first bit of bawdy humour I've heard from him, it's surprising and I like it.

"I don't know, Mellark. Vanilla chai is awfully hard to top."

He grins, some of the tension seeping out of his posture. "I hope I'm up to the challenge."

I have no doubt he will be. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of just how up to the challenge he might be, and I take a large swig of tea to sidetrack my naughty thoughts.

Peeta's dressed much like I am, a puffy vest unzipped over a flannel shirt, cargo pants and hiking boots. His blond hair is still a little damp, the ends curling around his ears. It's a good look on him. At work, he's always so put together, pressed pants and polished shoes, I like the more casual look on him. I like it a lot. "Ready for an adventure?" he asks.

"Where are we going?" It's not that I don't trust Peeta, but I'm not a rule-breaker by nature and this is pretty far out of my comfort zone.

"Someplace where the office will be the last thing on your mind," he says, grinning. That doesn't do a whole lot to alleviate my nerves. But when he extends a hand out to me, I take a deep breath and go with him into the unknown.

Two hours pass in Peeta's Jeep - an older model but clean and well-maintained - in a calming blur of laughter and chatter and 80s satellite radio and before I know it, we're bouncing along a dirt road as it ascends into the low, blue-grey mountains. He turns onto a road, though road is perhaps too generous a term for the pocked dirt trench we traverse a final two miles, bouncing like pinballs as the Jeep navigates the narrow passage. When we finally emerge into the spring sunlight, stopped in a small meadow, Peeta is beaming. "Where are we?" I try to grumble, but the awe in my voice takes away any sting. A vast, green forest rises above the edge of the meadow, practically calling to me with it's cool shadowy greenness.

Peeta opens my door and I startle, having been so distracted that I didn't even notice he'd left the car. But he smiles, wide and delighted, and I join him. "This," he says, "is my little slice of heaven."

We hike through the woods briskly, uphill mostly, a faint path of moss-covered rocks and pine needles guiding the way. A trickling stream competes with birdsong and our breaths to be the soundtrack of our hike, each of us too lost in the beauty that surrounds us to bother with talk. All of the stress of the past few weeks falls away, there is no Panem Geographic, no Coin, no angry contractors or stuck-up photographers. There's just the cool whisper of the woods, the rich scent of decay and regrowth, the bits of dappled sunlight that peek through the early season canopy above. There's just me, the girl I am when the city and the strain of all of my responsibilities are stripped away. And there's Peeta, who occasionally glances over with a soft smile, but who doesn't seek to fill the silence.

It takes perhaps an hour before we emerge onto a flat stone summit with a breathtaking view of the surrounding mountains and a tiny jewel-bright pond below, cradled in a bowl of green. My breath catches and my throat tightens. Though we are a thousand miles from my father's mountain and the the lake where he long ago taught me to swim and fish, this view could be its cousin. I find myself fighting tears as I stand stock-still, gazing out over the landscape.

Peeta comes up behind me, setting a gentle hand on my shoulder. Before I can overthink it, I'm wrapping an arm around his waist, leaning into him. "Thank you," I murmur, and his hand slides down my arm, tugging me a little closer. "I don't know how you knew this is what I needed. But it is."

It's many minutes later when he speaks, his voice a little hoarse. "I used to come here, when I was young. When I needed to escape." I glance up at him; he's looking out over the vista, but his expression suggests he's somewhere else altogether. "Bring my sketchbook and draw until I felt better." After a beat, he shakes his head and laughs a little self-consciously. "Or until I couldn't avoid going back any longer."

I want to ask him what he was avoiding, what about his past made him want to run, but he takes a deep breath, squeezes my arm one last time, then turns away. "Are you hungry?" he asks, his voice a little rough.

"Yes," I tell him. I'm always hungry, that's true, but I also can tell he needs a distraction from whatever bad memories are chasing him. He fiddles in his backpack while I wander a little closer to the edge, drinking in the majesty sprawled before me, losing myself in the perfection of this place and this moment. "It's so beautiful here," I sigh, turning back to where Peeta has set a small lunch out in the shade and flopping down beside him.

He's holding his phone and grinning. "Not half as beautiful as you are right now," he says, turning his phone so I can see the screen. He's caught me in profile, a contented smile lifting my lips, the lush landscape framing me. It's a perfect capture of my mood, and a much better picture than should be possible with a crappy cell phone camera. But Peeta is an artist, clearly his talent transcends his tools.

"Wow," I say a little breathlessly, stunned both by the picture, and by the unexpected compliment. I chew my lip, searching for some response. I'm not good with compliments, but Prim keeps emphasizing that laughing them off isn't an appropriate response. "We, uh. We need one of us together." His eyes brighten, the last of the sadness dissipating as he manoeuvres us so that we're shoulder to shoulder, angling his phone to capture both our grinning faces and the panorama behind us. His hand wraps just briefly around my waist, under my hoodie, hot through the thin cotton tank top. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the mountain breeze. "Send that to me," I mumble when he pulls away, far too soon for my liking.

He laughs. "I will, as soon as I have cell service again." A glance at my own phone confirms that there is no service here, which should worry me, being far away from home and Prim and my job. But instead, it makes me feel even freer. Completely separate from the crap we've left behind. A bubble of intimacy in the vast wilderness that surrounds us.

Peeta's packed a light lunch, nuts and hard cheese, apples and crackers. We snack and rehydrate, talking and smiling, and never see or hear any evidence of another soul. "How did you find this place?" I finally ask. "It's not part of the state park trails?"

He shakes his head. "Where we parked, and a large part of the forest, is private property. My uncle's," he adds at my worried expression. "I grew up playing in these woods."

"We're not far from your hometown?" I know he's from the mountains somewhere in this general vicinity, we talked about it when I was admiring his tattoos.

He nods, then squints out over the landscape. "You can just make out the steeple of the church where I was baptised from here," he says, pointing, and sure enough, I can see a wisp of white among the pines.

"And your family's bakery too?"

"It's there too," he says, "though you can't see it from here." After a pause, he hesitantly offers, "I'll take you by on the way home, if you like."

As Peeta packs up the remnants of our picnic, I snap a quick selfie with the incredible view in the background and use the one bar of connectivity I encounter back in the meadow to send it to Jo. _Challenge 3 complete. Cabin here I come!_

o-o-o

Mellark's bakery is the most utterly charming old storefront set into a row of charming old buildings on a picture-perfect small town street, with huge trees and and iron benches lining the sidewalks. It's exactly the type of quaint town that would make Prim squeal with excitement, ice cream shops and jewellery stores and cutesy craft boutiques abound.

Peeta pauses on the sidewalk out front, and for a moment I think he's changed his mind about showing me the place. He's been tense and distracted since we left the summit. But he merely points to the windows above the shop. "That's where we lived, when I was young. My entire childhood smelled of bread." He laughs self-consciously, then guides me through the door.

The inside is, if possible, even more adorable than the exterior. The floors are black and white checked tile, polished to a shine, the walls covered in brightly-lettered chalk boards and soft watercolour paintings. Old-fashioned wooden cases with gleaming glass hold row upon row of decadent pastries, and little cafe tables with wrought iron chairs beckon patrons to enjoy their treats while watching the world pass by outside the large plate glass windows. It's perfection, and if we had anything like this back in the city I would pretty much live there.

A man glances up from behind the cash, the early afternoon sun catching familiar golden curls. It's like Peeta on fast-forward, a little older and softer, but same hair, same jaw, same broad shoulders and even broader smile as he bounds around the counter and across the shop to envelop Peeta in a hug. And not a bro hug, not some half-hearted bumping of shoulders. No, this man who is clearly Peeta's big brother commits fully to this hug, arms wrapped tightly around Peeta's back, eyes closed, joy and something like relief flickering across his expression. "You're here," he says. "It's been so long."

I move away, confused and affected by the emotion in the two brothers' reunion, wanting to give them some small semblance of privacy. The low murmur of voices nearly indistinguishable from each other rises, I only catch snippets of their whispered conversation. _Missed you. It's okay_. _She's not here._

Peeta is smiling widely as he introduces me to his brother, Brann, and as I shake his hand, I notice that he's not as tattooed as I'd expect a tattoo artist to be, the only art I can see on his skin is a line of script on the inside of his right wrist. When I comment on that, both Mellark brothers laugh. "I'm not the family tattooist," Brann admits with a wide smile. "That's our other brother, Rye." There are three Mellark brothers? I glance at Peeta and Brann, standing side by side, grinning near identical grins. Three guys who look like that? That's the stuff of fantasy right there. "I'm not artistic like Peet and Rye, sadly," Brann continues, in the same self-effacing tone I've heard so often from Peeta. "I'm just a lowly baker."

I tip my head towards one of the bakery cases, where a riot of gorgeous cupcakes stand in sugar flower perfection. "That looks pretty darned artistic to me," I say, and Brann shrugs.

"Those are nothing compared to what Peeta can do," he admits. "He decorated all of the cakes when we were growing up." The brothers share a melancholy glance I can't interpret. "Are you staying for awhile?" Brann asks, and the hope in his tone is palpable.

"I promised Katniss the best cheese bun in the district," Peeta says, and ushers me over to one of the tables.

We spend perhaps 45 minutes at the bakery, eating what is by far the nicest, cheesiest pastry I've ever had and chatting with Brann between customers. And little by little, Peeta relaxes, talks more about the small town, pointing out that the watercolour streetscapes lining the walls are mostly his, painted when he was a teenager. Tells me stories about growing up in a bakery, about flour fights with his brothers and burned bread that stank up the place for days after. Even mentions his father with the kind of sad reverence that comes with losing someone so fundamental far too soon. But he never mentions his mother, neither of them do, and I suspect that she's part of the sadness that has clung to Peeta since we entered town, part of the gap between two brothers who clearly adore each other but obviously don't see a lot of each other.

I don't pry, even on the drive home when we're both calm and content. I know what it's like to have stories that are better left untold.

He drops me at my apartment around dinnertime, carrying the take-out bag of treats Brann insisted on sending home with me and setting it on the table just inside my door. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says softly, almost a little shyly, eyes averted. I know he has to leave, know he has plans he can't get out of. But I'm reluctant to let him go, at least not without letting him know how much the day meant to me.

I'm not good at saying things, so instead I catch his hand before he can slip away, then tug him towards me, wrapping my arms around his waist and tucking my head against his chest. He hugs me back, holding me snugly in the warm cradle of those impressive arms, one large hand coming up to cup the back of my head.

"Thank you for today," I say, and his answer is the press of his lips against my temple.

"I should be thanking you," he says, sighing against my hair. "I haven't been home in so long. Thank you for giving me an excuse. For challenging me, shaking me out of my comfort zone."

I want to argue that I haven't challenged him, if anything, it's the opposite. But he pulls back, blue eyes bright with affection and I'm lost in their depths. And though I'm not bold by nature, I lift up on my toes. His head dips, and then our lips meet. The kiss is slow and sweet, almost chaste, but there is no mistaking the hunger - his or my own. He pulls away far too quickly and I fight not to chase him. With one last press of those sinfully lush lips against my head, he's gone.

I wish he could have stayed, but even without him beside me, I'm so calm, so much happier than I've been in months. I change into sweats and collapse on the couch with a glass of wine and another Mellark's pastry, which is where Johanna finds me not long after. "You did it!" she crows, kicking her heels off and crashing onto the couch beside me. "You look so much better," she says, without a trace of mocking.

"I feel better," I admit, passing my glass for her to take a swig.

"I knew playing hooky was a good idea! We'll loosen you up yet." Jo pumps her fist in the air, and I laugh. But I know in my heart it isn't the playing hooky that's improved my mood so much, nor the hike or forest or even the perfect cheese bun. It's Peeta, that shy, kind guy hiding a surprising spice under all of his sweetness. Hiding depth I've only just begun to scratch the surface of. Jo's crazy plan is the only reason he's noticed me though; quiet, scowling Katniss Everdeen doesn't otherwise attract much attention. But I'm so grateful that he did. I only hope he continues to be interested once he realizes that I'm nothing like this wild and spontaneous persona he's seen over the past two months.

My musings are cut short when Jo leans over to steal a bite of my cheese bun and promptly moans like a porn star. "Holy shit, Brainless, where did this orgasm in baked form come from?" And I laugh some more, because even though I love Jo there are some things worth keeping just for myself.


	5. Chapter 5: Ink

"I'm sorry," Prim says over the phone. "I'd get out of it if I could. But you know how weird Hazelle is about family stuff." Hazelle is Prim's new mother in law, and she's been really good to Prim, and to me and our mother too. So I can't begrudge her expecting Prim and Rory to attend the handful of functions she hosts.

"I get it," I say, and I'm mostly successful at keeping the bitterness out of my voice. After all, expecting Prim to keep one day a year free for me is apparently unreasonable.

"You should spend the day with mama," she starts, but I cut her off.

"No." I've forgiven my mother for much of what happened in the past, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to spend the anniversary of Daddy's death with her.

"It's been eleven years," Prim says gently, but I can hear her underlying meaning. It's time for me to get over it already. She obviously has.

"I'll call you tomorrow," I tell her, anxious to let the conversation drop.

She sighs. "Don't be mad, Kat."

"I'm not, Little Duck." And I'm really not. I'm just sad and heartsick. It isn't Prim's fault that working on the ecotourism issue has made me miss my father so much more this year. And I know - rationally, I know - that she'd be with me if she could. I can't expect her to bail on the first Hawthorne family gathering where she's an official Hawthorne.

But we've always spent this day together. The day that changed everything for us. The day we lost not only our beloved father, but for so many years our mother too. Even when she was away at college, I'd drive out to spend the day with her, preparing my dad's favourite meal together and sharing our best memories of him.

I can't help feeling like I'm forgetting him. His beautiful voice that made the songbirds fall silent in wonder. His laugh, his hugs, his way of making me feel like the most important person in the world.

His death was the end of my innocence. It was the end of happy, carefree Katniss and the birth of this shuttered, staid woman who Jo says fun forgot. But fun didn't forget me. Fun left with my father.

o-o-o

The day falls on a Saturday, and I head into my office, intent on losing myself in the final details of my special issue, and catching up on my regular editorial duties that have fallen by the wayside in the two months I've been working on this project. I am a machine, headphones on, fully focussed on my work.

When I finally lift my weary eyes from my monitor, it's late and the sun is setting, a grimy twilight hanging over the city. The entire day gone with barely a thought. I should be elated.

But as I climb on the bus, the Saturday night crowd just beginning to assemble in the downtown, pleased is the last thing I feel. Instead, a sick kind of misery chokes me. How is burying myself in work honouring my dad? It's what I used to do in those early years, when my mother did nothing but lie in bed, when all of my energy went to keeping Prim and myself fed, keeping a roof over our heads. Giving Prim the childhood she deserved was my number one priority then, I wouldn't let it be stolen from her, like it was from me. I tamped down my own grief, buried under a mound of responsibility. Even celebrating Dad that one day a year was originally Prim's idea. One that she's outgrown now.

It's not exactly intentional when I climb off the bus not at my own stop, but at Peeta's. I've been to his place before, a couple of weeks ago to listen to him jam with Thresh and a few of their musician buddies. But as I stand in front of his apartment door, I realize I'm not sure it's all that appropriate for me to just show up, or that my unannounced presence will be welcome. We're not dating, or at least I don't think we are. I mean, I've kissed him twice, and we talk all the time, but that date we'd talked about never materialized. We've hung out a couple of times since the day he took me to his hometown, but never alone.

Yet he's the one person I want to see right now. The one I know will understand what I'm feeling.

Faint noise wafts through his door, the television probably. I pace up and down his hall on soft feet, trying to talk myself into knocking. Finally, I pull out my phone.

I dial his number and he answers on the first ring, but he sounds distracted. A horrible thought that he might not be alone hits me, and I almost hang up. "Katniss? He says through my phone's tinny speaker. "Are you there?"

"Yeah," I say. "Sorry. Is, uh. Is this a bad time?"

With a chuckle, he assures me it isn't. "I always like hearing your voice," he says, and it's so sweet and so warm that the tension and fear in me loosens, letting all of the other emotions of the day resurface. I sigh, and it's a sad, pathetic little noise. "Are you okay?" he asks when the silence has stretched out too long. I shake my head, but he can't see it through the phone. "Katniss?"

"I just," I start, but I don't know what else to say. Sniffling, I reach up to rub my nose and realize that I've started crying. "Can I see you, maybe?"

"Where are you?" His voice is sharp, worry colouring the words. I can hear shuffling in the background.

"At your door." The words are barely out of my mouth when his door is flung open. Peeta stands in the doorway, wearing a white tank top and loose grey sweatpants slung low on his narrow hips, a smudge of what looks like orange paint across his cheekbone. I almost don't notice his frightened expression because he's wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses and holy crap, he's like some kind of reverse superman, where Clark Kent puts on the glasses and becomes the hottest man on earth.

But then he's enveloping me in a hug and everything else falls away. Surrounded by his warmth and his sweet-spicy scent, I let out a deep, shuddering breath and slump against him. He half drags me inside, still in his embrace, and walks us to the couch.

He doesn't demand to know why I'm there or why I'm falling apart. He simply holds me. I don't sob or wail, that's not who I am, but tears continue to trickle down my face, wetting his shirt as I nuzzle his shoulder. We stay like that, him silent, me curled against him, wrapped in his warmth, his scent, until the storm abates.

Peeta presses a fleeting kiss to my hair before shifting so he can look at my face. I know I'm a mess; I'm not a cute crier, and my nose is running like a faucet. But he simply brushes a damp lock of hair away from my cheek.

"My dad," I start, then have to stop to force down the lump in my throat. "It's the anniversary." It's all I get out, but Peeta's eyes soften with sympathy.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks gently, and I know even without him saying that he won't pressure me. He'll listen, if I want. But he'll give me space instead if that's what I prefer.

Maybe that's why I do talk. Why I tell Peeta about my father's death, the horrible months afterward when I was terrified that social services would take Prim away, terrified I'd come home and find my mother dead. All of the things I've never allowed myself to say out loud, not to anyone. Jo doesn't know, nor do any of my other friends. My mother was practically catatonic at the time. And I did my best to shelter Prim from the worst of it. It's a burden I have always borne alone.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, embarrassed. I never cry in front of other people, I didn't cry at Daddy's funeral, didn't cry in the months I struggled to learn how to feed us, never cry when Prim and I reminisce. I keep it all locked up tight inside me. Vulnerability is dangerous. "It was a long time ago, I know."

Peeta shakes his head. "Grief doesn't have a timeline, Katniss. There's no expiry date." He passes me a box of tissues, then heads to the next room. I feel like an idiot, blowing my nose, still hiccupping from my tears. This probably marks the end of any chance he and I could be more than friends. But I can't regret coming here. His strength, his steadiness, I feel better and stronger just from having him beside me.

The clink of glasses on granite wafts from the kitchen as I glance around. His apartment is smaller than the one that Jo and I share - it has only one bedroom - but it's better laid out, making the living area feel much more spacious. Beside the big window, behind where I'm sitting, a partly-finished canvas sits on an easel, a paint-battered stool beside it, and I'm drawn to the swirls of pink and orange.

This must be what Peeta was doing when I interrupted him, the paint on his palette is still wet, glossy and mineral-smelling. Though the painting has only just been started, I can tell it's going to be a sunset. And even at this early stage, Peeta's talent is on display.

"Not much to look at yet." I glance back over my shoulder, Peeta is standing beside his couch, a pair of water glasses in his hands and a tupperware container tucked under one arm.

"It's already beautiful." I turn back to the painting. It's familiar, even in this preliminary form. The shape of the sky's reflection in what must be a little pond far below. "It's the lookout you took me to, right?" Though we hadn't been there at sunset, I can imagine what it would look like with the sky painted this colour.

He laughs softly, I can hear him setting his haul down on the coffee table. "Yeah. Good eye," he says, his voice a little tight. When I glance back at him again, he's rubbing the back of his neck, something I've noticed he does when he's embarrassed or uncomfortable.

"Sorry," I say, moving away from the canvas. "I didn't mean to snoop." I don't know a lot of artists, but Jo is a writer, and she's insanely secretive about her writing until she's finished at least a first draft.

"No," he says. "I don't mind if you look." But there really isn't anything to look at. Though he's an artist, Peeta's walls are covered in framed music posters, not any of his paintings. Apart from the canvas behind me, the only bits of Peeta's work I've seen are the watercolours at his family's bakery, and the infographics he designed several months ago for an issue I edited.

He seems to catch onto my meaning when I glance around his living room. "Right," he laughs. "Not much out here." He smiles tightly, though it almost looks like a grimace. "Did you want to see some of my stuff?"

The words are barely out before I'm nodding. I'm not oblivious to his discomfort, but I'm curious enough to take his offer at face value. His smile turns a little more genuine at my enthusiasm, and with a soft chuckle, he leads me to his bedroom.

I peeked in here before, throwing my coat on the bed when I came to listen to him play with his friends, but as he paws through his closet I allow myself to really look around the room. It's tidy, the bed is made and there's no laundry piled up. A stack of books sit neatly on a low dresser, I try to read the spines surreptitiously but the angle is wrong.

"Here we are," he says, and I drag my attention back. He's got a bunch of small and medium sized canvases in his arms, carelessly stacked one on top of the other. He sets them on his bed, then turns back to the closet. But I don't wait for an invitation, moving instead to study the paintings.

The first few are what I expected, the soft watercolours like at his family's bakery and brighter landscapes in acrylic like the one on his easel. But then I flip to one that takes my breath away, and I can't help but gasp. It's like some sort of dystopian nightmare. A lone figure, a young man maybe, cowers in the corner of a prison cell, spattered with blood and bathed in an odd acid-green light, as if in a dungeon. It's gritty and raw and oh so dark. I can almost smell the dirt, the blood, the stench of decay. It's extraordinary, and it's yet another hint that there is so much more to Peeta Mellark than meets the eye.

He grunts out a pained laugh. "Forgot that one was in there," he admits, though he doesn't attempt to stop me from looking. "It's a little experimental."

"It's mesmerizing," I tell him. The detail is amazing, sure, but it's the emotion that oozes from every brushstroke that compels me. As I stare at it I'm struck with the certainty that it's a self portrait, that the broken and battered prisoner is Peeta himself.

When I glance back at him it's with tears in my eyes, and his expression softens. "That's enough I think," he murmurs, as if he's worried about my feelings when all I want to do is wrap him up and put him someplace safe where no one can hurt him again. But I let him lead me out anyway.

Once we're again settled on his couch he hands me a small moleskine sketchbook. "Nothing crazy in this," he says. "I promise."

I flip through the pages with a smile while I munch on a homemade cookie from Peeta's container. Man can he bake. He sits beside me, golden head bent over the book in my lap, explaining some of the sketches when I ask questions. It's calming, absorbing and exactly what I need, his warmth bedside me, his soothing voice and the faint scent of cinnamon.

A few are clearly tattoo designs, which he tells me are early drafts of custom work designed by him and inked by his brother. It's these stories that interest me the most. "How do you decide which elements to use?" He takes my interruption with a smile.

"Mostly, I just listen," he says. "I listen to people talking about themselves, to the things that are important to them, and a picture emerges in my head."

"What would you design for me?" I'm not fishing, just curious, but he smirks, and flips through the book until he gets to a blank page. A pencil emerges from a neat stash in his end table, and he taps it against his lush lip while he studies my face.

Then he begins to sketch.

At first, I only pay attention to the pencil lines. But then my eyes are drawn to him instead. To his hands, long fingered and elegant as they move in swift, sure strokes. To his eyelashes, which ordinarily you don't notice much because they're so blond. But up close, in the lamplight, they're a light golden color and so long I don't see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks. To the pale freckles that dot his straight nose like little fairy kisses. To his soft lips, pursed in thought. His face takes on a special look when he concentrates. His usual easy expression is replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. It's fascinating, and maybe just a little frightening.

"What do you think?" he says, catching me gawking at him like fanatic.

My eyes drop guiltily to the paper, and I gasp. It's only a simple black and white silhouette of a bird. But it's like he's captured my father's soul. "Oh my God, Peeta," I say, then press my lips together hard to stop myself from blubbering. With shaking fingers, I trace the pencil lines.

"You said when he sang, even the birds stopped to listen," Peeta whispers.

"They do," I whisper. "Or, they did. This is remarkable, Peeta, truly." So achingly perfect.

"Well, if you ever decide to get inked, I know a guy," he chuckles, joking. But I'm not.

"Would he do it tonight, do you think?"

Peeta's pale brows furrow. "That's not really a decision you should make lightly," he says, not in a lecture, but with clear concern. "Especially not your first one. You're upset. Take a few days to think about it."

I shake my head. "I have been thinking about it, ever since you told me the story behind this." I stroke my fingers across his shoulder, where the compass star whisk that represents his baker father is inked. "I just wasn't sure what would be fitting. Now I know."

"Are you sure about this? Tattoos are forever."

"I'm sure. I want this."

He searches my face again, in that way he has that makes me feel bare before him, like he can see all of my secrets. Then he nods. "I'll call Rye," he says. "See if he's free."

Forty-five minutes later, I'm in a tattoo parlour on the south side. It isn't anything like I was expecting, not dark or seedy or grimy. Instead, it's bright and welcoming, white tile floors gleaming and framed tattoo designs on the walls, each more incredible and elaborate than the last. I'm looking around, mouth agape in wonder, when what is clearly Peeta's brother emerges from the back.

This family is a genetic masterclass.

Rye Mellark is just a little taller than his younger brother, and his blond hair is long and pulled back in a man bun that should look stupid but somehow really works. But the wide grin he flashes when he sees us is exactly like his brothers. "Peet," he says, pulling Peeta into a hug. "You are a damned fine sight for sore eyes."

"Hey, Rye," he says, slapping his brother on the back. "It's been too long."

"Damn straight," Rye says. He steps back, and turns his attention to me. "And this must be the lovely lady you were telling me about."

"Katniss," I say, reaching out a hand to shake his.

He laughs, and instead pulls me into a hug. "I know who you are, darlin'. Peeta hasn't stopped talking about you in months." I glance over at Peeta, who is rubbing his nape, but also smiling. "So," Rye says, releasing me. "What are we inking tonight?"

It's clear the brothers have worked together before, they fall into synchronicity when we get to the area where the magic happens. Peeta uses a light table in the corner to transfer his design onto different paper, darkening the edges and cleaning up some details as he does. Rye keeps up gentle, distractings conversation as he helps me get ready, showing me some of the extensive artwork inked on his body and explaining what each piece is or means. He sets me at ease nearly as well as his brother does. But once I'm lying on my side on a table that's just a little too much like the one at my gynecologist's office for my liking, with pants shimmied down and skin disinfected, my nerves kick in.

Peeta pulls up and chair and sits right in front of me. "Okay?" he asks.

"A little nervous," I tell him.

Rye chuckles behind me. "Fear of the pain is worse than the pain itself," he says, snapping on a pair of gloves.

"That's what my dentist says. But she has a television in the ceiling to distract me." Both brothers laugh, but Peeta takes my hands.

"Just concentrate on me," he says.

And I do.

The first touch of the needle, I flinch. "Just relax, darlin'," Rye drawls, using his free hand to hold me a little more still.

It hurts, not intensely, but maybe a little more than I was expecting and I grit my teeth, panic rising. "Still okay?" Peeta says softly, too low for Rye to hear him over the buzzing of the tattoo gun. I nod, because my badass reputation with Peeta has already been tarnished by the crying earlier, and badasses definitely don't wimp out 2 minutes into a tattoo.

After a couple of minutes, the pain recedes. It still stings, but not too badly, and the conversation between Peeta and Rye keeps me distracted. But though he chats and jokes with his brother, Peeta's eyes never leave mine, his hands keep mine cradled in warmth. I'm almost drifting in it, the bit of pain, the strange tension, the warmth and affection in Peeta's eyes. I feel drugged.

Rye says something about a cheese bun, and I perk up a little. "I had a Mellark's cheese bun," I slur.

Rye, who has moved in front of me to ink from another angle, glances at Peeta, surprise on his face. "You took her to the bakery?" Peeta nods, and Rye grunts, his expression somewhere between irritation and fascination. I want so badly to ask why these two young men are so conflicted about their family business. But it isn't my place.

Apparently, Rye doesn't agree. "Was the witch there?" he asks, and though he keeps his voice even the undercurrent of anger is obvious.

"No," Peeta says. "Just Brann. He asked about you."

"If he cared, he'd have walked away," Rye says, his jaw flexing. This is what Peeta would look like angry, I realize. It's such a foreign expression, makes the brothers look completely different.

Peeta sighs. "You know he couldn't. Not really."

Rye grunts in response, and I wonder if maybe it's not the best idea to get the guy with the sharp thing full of very permanent ink angry. But he continues gently and professionally, and conversation moves to sports and whether the Jays will make the playoffs. I'm lulled by the chatter, the droning cadence of the gun, and the warmth of Peeta's big hands which never leave mine.

Before I know it, Rye is wiping away the excess ink and reaching for a mirror. Peeta helps me position the glass so that I can see the design.

It's exquisite.

"Oh," I whisper, tears springing into my eyes. "It's perfect."

"It's a real beauty," Rye agrees. "Peeta is damned talented."

"You are too," I say, though I'm not looking at him. My eyes are still fixed on the black ink, on the reminder of my father now permanently adorning my body.

He chuckles, taking the mirror before I'm ready, and covering the spot and reddened skin around it with some sort of ointment, then a layer of saran, taping it all in place.

Peeta helps me sit up, I'm a little wobbly and a little light-headed, like there was booze in the ink or something. His hands steady me, but it isn't enough. I tug him closer, to stand between my knees, then wrap my arms around him. "Thank you," I murmur into his chest. He cradles me in his arms for the longest time, rocking just slightly. The fleeting press of his lips against my hair makes me sigh. It's ridiculous that holding his hands and staring at him for an hour while I got repeatedly stabbed by a little sharp thing should make me feel so warm and affectionate, so needy. But it has.

Behind me, the sounds of Rye cleaning his equipment stop. I have the strongest sense that he is giving us a bit of privacy.

I'm not going to waste it.

I lift my head from Peeta's chest and wrap my arms around his neck. Sitting on the table while he stands, I'm nearly the same height as he is. It only takes the gentlest of tugs to have his face level with mine. "I'm going to kiss you now," I tell him.

Then I do.

I pour all of the gratitude I have for him into the kiss, trying to tell him without words how glad I am to have him in my life. How much he means to me.

When we break apart, Peeta looks as dazed as I feel. "Wow," he says, stroking his thumb across my bottom lip. "Should ink you more often," he says, and I laugh. He's so good at this, so good at knowing the right thing to say in every situation. He's just so good.

"Why haven't we gone on that date yet?" I ask, my arms still around his shoulders, my fingers toying idly with his curls.

He laughs breathlessly. "I wasn't honestly sure you wanted to," he says. "Today is the first time you've ever called me. I thought maybe I was reading you wrong, that you were only putting up with me because I was being so aggressive. You've, uh. Well you've never said that you want to see me" That can't be right? I bite my lip as I think back. And it becomes heartrendingly clear that I've been so wrapped up in work and, well, everything really, that I haven't made any moves.

That stops now.

"I know you've been busy, with the special edition," Peeta continues, but he's not looking at me anymore, and he's managed, despite my grip on his hair, to shuffle back enough for a gap that's far too wide to exist between us.

I tug on his hair until he's forced to meet my eyes. "I want to," I tell him, and my voice only wavers a little with the unnatural boldness of the statement. "I want to see where this could go."

Peeta smiles, wide and bright, and his whole body seems to relax. "Yeah?" he says.

"Yeah. Are you busy tomorrow?" I smile, and despite how awful the day started, everything feels a little brighter. "I'd like to take you on a date."

"I don't know," he says. "I might be washing my hair." I tug his hair again, and he laughs, then leans down to kiss me. "I'd love that," he says against my lips.

o-o-o

Peeta drops me at home and leaves me with a sheet of aftercare instructions after pressing me against my apartment door and kissing me until I can barely remember my name.

The apartment is quiet. I fish my phone out of my bag to message Jo and make sure she's okay, but as I'm scrolling through my texts, my mother's name jumps out at me.

It's just after midnight, but I know she's working the night shift.

Every other year, I've ignored her on this day. I know Prim calls her, but I've always been too full of pain and regret to reach out. But this year, with my heart full, I click dial. "Hi Mama," I say when she answers, surprise in her voice.

We chat for nearly an hour, and we cry at least half of it. We only hang up with a promise to meet for lunch during the week.

I climb into bed feeling freer than I have in many, many years, and fall right asleep.

My bedroom door creaking open sometime later makes me drift up into a violet-shrouded half-wakefulness. "Damned Millers have their grandkids over again," Johanna grumbles. The Millers live in the apartment next door, and their spare room shares a wall with Jo's bedroom. "They're throwing a ball or something against the wall. I can't wait until we switch rooms." I'm too tired to counter that, so I only groan my acquiescence as Jo climbs into bed behind me, jostling me as she settles in. But when she flings an arm over my hip, I yelp.

Jo is wide awake and flipping on the light in a heartbeat. "What the hell, Brainless? Are you hurt? What happened? Who touched you?" She pulls at the waist of my pyjama pants, and I don't try to stop her. I know she won't be appeased until she sees that I'm okay. It's one of her quirks, one I love about her. "Is this…" she trails off, perplexed, when instead of an injury she encounters the saran wrap and medical tape shield Rye affixed hours earlier.

Her eyes flit up to mine, a question in them, and I nod my permission. She carefully picks the edge of the tape free. "Holy shit," she breathes, and it almost sounds like awe. "You got inked!" She pulls more of the tape away, exposing the entire tattoo. "Wow."

Jo has enough tattoos that she knows not to touch it, peering closely but moving her head instead of my hip to see the details. The beautifully rendered bird, his head dipped, encircled by music notes. Simple, but oh so poignant. A symbol of the man who sang like a mockingbird. "It's for your dad," she murmurs, and I nod. A couple more moments pass before Jo's head snaps up. "Oh shit," she says. "That was this week."

"Yeah," I say, voice rough from sleep and emotion. Jo gently pats the tape back into place, then grabs me in a hug.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I forgot. Are you okay?"

"I think I am," I say against her shoulder. I still miss him, I think I always will. But I feel better. Like I'm allowed to be sad about his death, but like I'm also allowed to move on. Like it's okay for life to be good again. I think he'd want that for me.

We settle back into my bed together, Jo with her hands to herself, me facing away so as not to lie on my newly marked skin. I'm dozing again when she pipes up, "I can't believe you did something so badass. I'm impressed."

I snicker. "I think this should count as number four on the list."

Johanna laughs hard enough to shake the bed. "Fine, Brainless. I'll give you this one. Think of it as a freebie." She settles back onto my extra pillow. "Just means the last one is going to be extra challenging."

"I'll take it," I murmur. There are only 11 more days until my birthday, with one more ticked off I might actually accomplish the whole list after all.

"I'm proud of you," she whispers, and there is no trace of mockery left in her tone.

I'm proud of me too.


End file.
